Spilling Leather
by Spyre
Summary: It's a Wonderful Life... on heroin! Trippy. Sexy. Fun. Curt/Curt.


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WARNING: THIS IS INDEFINITELY INCOMPLETE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Entertainment Movies _Velvet Goldmine_ **Curt Wild**  
  
Of all characters of all time, Curt's among my favourites.  
And trust me, it's hard to get on my favourites list!  
Just one look, people... and you're his.

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Disclaimer:

-=deep breath=-  
  
He's not mine! Never will be.  
[Took a lotta therapy to actually be able to say that. ;)]  
  
**Important Note:** I have no clue where this came from. I needed a Curt Wild fix a few weeks ago and this is what came of it. I can already tell no one will like it because of past experiences. Why post it, you might ask? Because I'm putting it up for those freaks like me who actually might enjoy the imagery of pure, whored, intoxicating Wildness.  
  
**Important Note 2:** Curt! Wild! Curt Wild!

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Title: Spilling Leather  
  
**Rating:** R [drug abuse, language, sexual content]  
**  
Summary:** Curt had given up on music, had stopped even picking up his guitar… and Fate couldn't have it.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Curt Wild? Not mine. Curt Wild is Todd Haynes'.  
  
**Dedication:** Ziggy Sane… who needed this fix as bad as I did.  
  
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Darkness was erraticated every other second with shots of coloured light, and the strobes' ejaculations that were positioned so perfectly in their nooks. It was a confined, writhing place that smelled of smoke, sweat and sex.  
  
Curt picked up on these with an uncanny, effortless nature. He passed through the crowd as if melting within the pores of some gigantic creature. The bass beat vibrated the concrete floor and the incoherent words bled over shimmering bodies sliding against one another in a heated, rhythmic mass.  
  
He walked like a ghost, stag and unseen. Those blonde, stringy locks had shorn away to a shorter, sloppy muss of pitch brown hair. The transformation was beyond palpable. Sea foam tinted eyes still glinted in that guarded way, and his stride was that same, random combination of slow, long and cocky. His leather pants had the sheen and color of drying blood. That long sleeved black shirt hugged his shoulders and torso, cuffs stuffed up just before his elbows, revealing a tattoo of a snake winding around his left arm. Faded track marks could be seen in the ebony scales of the striking creature.  
  
Curt paused midstride. There it was. There he was, his presence. And then his tiresome albeit poetic words:  
  
"Must be great to be wanted. Must be grand to be envied. You're still just a betrayed child, and who's left to carry that truth… but you?"  
  
That singular cream voice slithered like a resigned serpent into Curt's mind along with an arm that curled around and held his rigid form. Before Curt could shrug the guy off, a syringe was brought before his face. The brown sugar like liquid inside made Curt shiver, made insane lust rage through his veins without anything to stop it.  
  
That voice came again in characteristic cadance:  
  
"What would you do for bliss? What would you do for this, Curt? Would you bleed? Be whored? Would you kill another man?"  
  
"How much?" he asked gratingly. This exchange was getting old, had never even held a thrill. His emotions and his mind, whatever was left of each, weren't up for games.

He hated riddles.

The only thing that kept this dealer free of Curt-wrath was the fact that he sold the best of the best. There were no qualms and no mysteries about the shit he put down for Curt. This was pure and total perfection embodied.  
  
A warm breath was on his ear.

This was new. Despite the position he was in, the dealer never got close enough for this:  
  
"The price of heaven weighs heavy because you've forgotten your way. You've stopped making that music. You've been beaten, won by life and that's a disaster I'm not willing to let you pay…"  
  
With that said, the power to absolutely crush the stranger was there on the hems of his mind, but something happened within the blink of an eye. The needle slid into his the crux of his shoulder and neck without warning. Curt wasn't sure if that was such a great thing at the moment, but nothing mattered in this kind of shattering ecstacy. He closed his eyes, felt the surge, leaning back against the body of the dealer without thought or care.  
  
"Listen close and remember well: What you're about to endure, what you think might be hell, is something you need more than any fix I can give you… This is Fate, Curt. She's your savior."  
  
Curt could actually see a face floating before his eyes.  
  
It looked like a heroin Jesus, but blurred and swirled as running paint on glass. Whoever held that face couldn't have been less than a god.  
  
Whispered, echoing words rushed from him, but never absolved into anything remotely understandable. He even wondered what the hell he was trying to say.  
  
The world blinked and blinked and blinked.  
  
His flesh crawled around, moving, thinking perhaps it'd feel better somewhere else. He melted with someone somehow like the color yellow and the sound of sand falling out of its place in life.  
  
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe… And it was hilariously sexual in a opposites kind of way.  
  
Who the hell was talking so brightly? Turn off the light. Turn it on. Dear gods, Brian… Brian, where could he be? Oh, where? Oh, where? He cried like a baby, but remembered he couldn't breathe.  
  
He had to breathe to cry. He panicked, felt an orgasm coming and rupturing like endless waves and he cried out in absolute, terrified grace.  
  
A thousand tongues ran up his form, between his legs. He shuddered, twisted. Time passed, waved as it told him Brian had forgotten and not to worry about locking his door because his brother would be visiting. Brian didn't have a brother… Wait, no… It was Curt's brother.  
  
He felt the head of a dick brush his lips and he opened out of pity. No one should go unsucked. The world would be a better place for this! He was the hero and Brian was in control of his arms. How the fuck did that…  
  
"Curt…" came an annoying voice. He swatted and growled at it. Sweat covered his body. His erection strained in those pants. He'd taken his shirt off himself, lay writhing, moaning in the sheets.  
  
"Curt…" again it came.  
  
"Fuck off!" he roared, reaching for something to throw, finding a throat instead. That was even better, jerking the other person toward him savagely, "Can't you see I'm busy?" he uttered. Why was he out of breath? His grip loosened as a crash of an orgasm thundered around his tormented prick and he cried out like a wounded animal. Everything was spinning in a syrupy, backward spiral.  
  
"Curt…" came that voice. Why the hell was it so fucking familiar?  
  
He opened his eyes. The lights buzzed into them, stretching them. His pupils adjusted to the morning streaming through the heavy fabric of curtains.  
  
And he was looking right into a mirror. It was one of those ceiling mirrors. He hadn't realized how fucking good he looked and reached up to his face, but the reflection did nothing of the kind. It just sighed impatiently. He yelled, slamming his eyes shut, shaking his head, digging his palms at the back of his eyeballs.

Opened once more, he saw no reflection, only an unfamiliar bedroom and the sight of a man's back as he pulled on pants over a bare ass.  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" he guttered, sitting up as best he could, doing a poor job of it.  
  
"Curt…" he started and ended the name rather pressured, turning and there, again, was that reflection. This was a trip he hadn't taken before. He must've injected, smoked or sniffed something. By the reality and the wash of it coming into his ears and into his skin, he knew it had to have been some great shit.  
  
"Oh," was all Curt said as he fell back, a hand bedecked with chipped nail polish laying on his bare abdomen, "So, how are we fucking doing?"  
  
There was a commotion to the bed as his twin crawled over Curt's body and hovered there above him, thighs spread out in black pants as he stradled the former rock star and leaned forward rather fluidly and directly for an aggressive kiss. Curt's head spun. His heart raced.  
  
He wrapped arms around this hallucination, though, and dragged nails up his back. He felt a pain to his tongue as he was bitten and the taste of coppery blood pooled over his teeth and lips into the other Curt's mouth.  
  
It was all too clear and real. He wrote it off as a good trip, though, and moved his hips upward, getting that friction and that contact. That tongue worked its magic and the stranger grinded back, giving Curt exactly what he wanted. He moaned and growled in his throat. This… was some good shit.  
  
The kiss was cut short and he was looking right into that face again. Sparkling, devious eyes met dazed, curious matches. The twin brought a hand up to Curt's cheek, caressed it, "Reality will come all too soon, Curt. Meanwhile, let's have a fuck."  
  
"Sounds like a plan," he growled, slapping both hands to the other Curt's ass and flipping him over none too carefully. Fingers sought places he knew and yet was just discovering. This was insane. This was utterly insane. His twin hissed, wanting, as Curt removed pants so recently donned. He ran hands up Curt's chest, nipples, collarbone, shoulders, snapping him down temporarily for a brutal kiss.  
  
Curt just noticed in the fog of lust in his mind that his twin had a foreign accent and had that long, blonde hair. Just more proof that it was all a wild trip.  
  
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Curt sat at the table, staring unblinkingly at the man across from him. By all appearances, this **was** _him_ just perched there in that chair. He couldn't believe it. The mirage should have worn off by now. Curt still felt the fingers and the residue of the thrusts on his skin… but the guy stayed in that eerie reflection.

And then the apparition spoke in an even pace, the lit cigarette spitting gray smoke into the air in lazy spyres, "Curt, you stopped making your music. I know why, but the universe can't have it. Your work is too important for how everything fits together in the end."

This was getting nowhere, "I'm _Fate_, Curt. I've come to pull a bit of a fairy tale on you, a junkie rehash of 'It's a Wonderful Life', if you will."

And Fate took a drag of the cancer stick, keeping his eerie, green slate eyes on Curt Wild.

"You've got to be kidding," the bowed rocker grunted, chin tilting downward, as a laugh coughed up his throat, "I mean, this is insane. [_his words became more introverted a beat later_] The heroin shoulda worn off by now. What the fuck…" he rubbed his temples, blinking now slowly.

"The 'heroin' wore off two hours ago, baby."

"You're just a figment of my imagination," Curt denied nonchalantly, his voice breaking once and very minutely as he glanced away to the kitchen sink, "You're not fucking there."

"Mmm…" came a sound from Fate as the filter was rolled between thumb and forefinger, "Wanna fuck again to prove it…"

Fate was an entity. Fate saw Curt's soul. Fate saw Curt's destiny. Fate managed Curt's destiny. Fate understood Curt, because -- without the man's knowledge -- Curt himself was a creature like Fate.

Curt was a part of the universe as much as Fate was. He just had yet to reach the stage in his life when he realized it and dissolved into the very spirit of the Stars.

Fate had been a living, fleshed being just as Curt had, before the creation of souls. Fate had promoted souls, had created reincarnation. Fate wanted Curt like a child wanted a piece of candy, or like Curt wanted his heroin.

Curt shot his twin a glare, "I don't think I could manage it…" but there was a sort of dare behind those words: If this guy was Fate, then Curt would be able to do it again… and again… and again… heroin or no.

Fate grinned, an expression that actually went straight to Curt's core, and Fate took the dare, "Let's give it a try…" and Fate winked, taking the cigarette between his lips and drawing in a silvery breath, releasing it… and at that moment, Curt felt the tightening in his groin and reflexively straightened in his chair.

A flicker of the brow and Curt was across the table, dampening out the cigarette on the stool and taking Fate's mouth to his. The impulse was pure, and the action was fluid, and Fate found… that Curt's power wasn't so much as honed as it was brutal.

And Fate gave in to the flood of hormones the physical body jolted through him and the seduction Fate itself felt pour through its very being… a moan and all was taste and feel.

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[**Author's Note:** I wrote this last year. Haven't touched it since. I really like it for some reason, though. Review. Lemme know if you're a freak-like-me.]


End file.
